Vertigo
by Milk and Glass
Summary: A character sketch - Owen Hunt's life and how Cristina Yang fits into it. An Owen/Cristina fic - my first!


When he was young, he had a dog. He had a bike, red with silver handlebars, and he had two constantly-scraped knees from sliding into home plate in the sandlot games. He had unruly, curly red hair and a gap-toothed smile. In short, he had a regular life.

It was unknown to his parents that he would join the army. They never thought the happy-go-lucky Owen Hunt would grow up to be a man who traches with a ballpoint pen shell. They didn't forsee his need to save – his need to ward off death with one hand while frantically trying everything with the other. Most parents don't see this. They just see their normal, happy-go-lucky child.

And maybe if life had continued that way past his childhood years, this story wouldn't be written, because it wouldn't have happened.

Trauma is a way of life when you live and work so close to the edge of death. You see unimaginable things and do even worse procedures in the name of Life. It's like a religion, but one far more demanding than the twisted logic of the Taliban fundamentalists requires. It's the ultimate Nirvana – save and be saved. Do good and have good done unto you. There are only two commandments, but they're worth more than an entire holy book.

So Owen Hunt went into this world at eighteen years old – went into the world of strict regimens and no sympathy, because he deserved it, plain and simple.

Later in his life, long past the blood-smeared days of blind fighting, he'll tell Cristina Yang that he deserves nothing good in his life because of what he is.

And she'll stare him straight in the eye and tell him that if you want to be honest? No one does, because no one is good. That's not what life is.

//~//

"Yang, I told you, get back in there! If that was your patient in there, you'd be doing everything you could to save his life! Do you not realize the point of this exercise?"

He realizes that his voice is harsh, rough, exactly the type of situation he tries to avoid outside the army. He got used to speaking in a certain manner – at a half-shout, clipped words, no-nonsense voice.

But for this petite Asian woman who winces at the volume that he's practically yelling at, he wishes that he'd remembered she wasn't one of his soldiers – that this is not a war he's trying to win, technically.

She blinks at him anyway. "It's a pig. You're diverting resources, expensive medicine, and talented surgeons for bacon."

"That's not the point – don't you get it?"

"Apparently not." Her eyes are half-closed in boredom, and he suddenly wants to throw something through a window, or even slip a scalpel across his arm, just to see her react. To see her care.

She turns away from him. "This is a waste of my time. I'm not a vet, I'm a surgeon. Find me a real patient or tell me to go help another attending."

He knows he could give in – in fact, it'd probably be easier to – but that's not Owen Hunt.

He growls instead. "If that pig isn't living by the time I come back, consider yourself on scut for the next week."

As he leaves, he throws her a look over his shoulder, expecting to see submission, maybe, or even a turned back.

Instead, she gazes at him through clear brown eyes and he drops his, embarrassed for a second to be caught in emotion with this woman.

Owen Hunt never breaks a gaze – until today.

//~//

He finds her crying in the stairwell, and for a moment, is wrong-footed. He moves to leave, but she catches him in her beacon of a gaze and he's caught anyway.

"I'm sorry," he begins awkwardly, but she raises a hand.

"Don't."

"Okay – I'll go."

"Whatever." She's cold by nature, but having worked with her a little bit, he's starting to understand that it's a front – she lives in a constant maelstrom of emotion, but she puts up walls so that no one can see how conflicted she is.

And then he suddenly discovers how to get through to her.

You don't touch Cristina Yang – he's learned that. She initiates the touch. But he puts a hand near her – just hovering over her shoulder, and she looks down at it, covers it with her own.

"There's a place I go," Owen begins, feeling stupid, but then his courage escalates. "Come on, I'll show you. It'll make you feel better."

"Thanks, but I think I can handle it." Her tone would be enough to stop anyone else, but Owen's been through heavy fire, and he has a reckless courage that he knows she notices. After a moment, her hand slips into his.

"Fine."

She stands with him on the vent at the very top of the hospital and her gaze is still skeptical. "I'm not sure what this is going to achieve."

"Wait for it."

When the whoosh of cold air blows up through her scrubs and sends his lab coattail billowing, her face changes to one of sheer exhilaration and he can see, she gets it.

She gets it, with no words at all.

//~//

It's funny how life throws you hardships one after the other, like hand grenades – as soon as you dodge one, another comes flying at your head. Owen's having one of those weeks and he keeps pushing Cristina away. It's not doing much for their relationship, but when she meets his ex-fiance, any thoughts she may have had about giving it all up fly away.

It's obvious Owen thinks he's fucked up. What it is is that he never gives himself a chance to fuck up or to succeed, either way.

She holds him closely, feeling his whole body charge away from her, wanting to shrink into a tiny ball of pain, but she won't let him. This is not the time to close up. And to save his feelings, she explains it scientifically.

"The pressure over a large part of your body will slow your heart and lower your blood pressure. It's comforting in a purely chemical way."

Whether he believes her or not is beside the point – he falls asleep, holding her tightly around the waist.

She strokes his soft red hair and wonders where exactly duty turns into trauma and vice versa.

//~//

An honorable discharge is not being fired. Not really. It's being let go. There's a difference.

Except there really isn't, and he hasn't told his parents because the reaction is the same, either way. You can argue semantics all you want, but the fact is, their son is no longer a soldier fighting in Iraq. He's hiding in a Seattle hospital and dealing with such a whopping case of post-traumatic disorder that it nearly kills him day to day.

He doesn't ever say anything to Cristina, but he appreciates her more than he can tell her. He appreciates her quiet comfort; her need to keep discussion to a minimum – her way of keeping things top-level, but opening herself up for all of his shit, no matter what the hell he throws at her.

It's a dizzying relationship, but he depends on her.

It's dangerous – it's heading almost into the enemy camp, opening himself up more than he's ever done before. He's always known that despite his normal upbringing – despite his sense of duty, he's more fucked up than anyone will ever know.

But she stops the vertigo with a cool, straightforward glance, and he can walk again.

No matter what happens, he will walk again.


End file.
